


The Scarecrow

by AppleSeeds



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Beauty and the Beast Elements, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Curse Breaking, Dark Thoughts, Fluff and Angst, Halloween, Happy Ending, Loneliness, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Smut, Spooky, Suicidal Thoughts, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Aziraphale (Good Omens), Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens), Witch Curses, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:53:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26750191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleSeeds/pseuds/AppleSeeds
Summary: The last surviving member of his family, Aziraphale inherits a crumbling 14th century cottage from his uncle. Staying in the cottage to catalogue his uncle's collection of rare books, Aziraphale combats his loneliness by speaking to the scarecrow in the neighbouring field. He awakes one night to find the scarecrow in his bedroom, mouth torn open, speaking to him...Crowley was cursed by a witch and turned into a scarecrow over five hundred years ago, but somehow Aziraphale's presence is changing him into something more human. While Aziraphale works to break the curse completely, the two of them spend a great deal of time together and find something special within each other, both discovering what it truly means to be free.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 153
Kudos: 369
Collections: Ineffable Humans AU





	1. Inheritance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KissMyAsthma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissMyAsthma/gifts).



> This is the first of two fics I'll be posting this month for spooky season! :-)
> 
> Please check the tags - this fic includes some dark elements including thoughts about death generally and mentions of wanting to end life, also prolonged loneliness and suffering. Generally though, it starts spooky but then turns into primarily fluff!
> 
> This story idea came from KissMyAsthma - I'm so grateful to her for the idea and trusting me to do something good with it, and I'd also like to thank her for all the discussions we had while I was writing this and helping me to work out what would happen! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

**September 1902**

The wind howled, the saddle squeaked and crisp leaves crunched beneath the horse’s hooves, each gallop carrying him further away from the city. Distant church bells chimed the hour as the shadows lengthened and the jackdaws swooped down to their roosts amongst the trees, their obsidian wings clattering against the branches and knocking more leaves to the ground. Approaching a fork in the road, Aziraphale consulted the map left by his uncle before encouraging the horse to the left.

By the time he arrived, the sun had sunk out of sight, but the bright gibbous moon cast its silver light over his uncle’s, no, _his_ , fourteenth century cottage. Even in the pale moonlight, Aziraphale could determine that the cottage was somewhat dilapidated and had been barely updated, poorly maintained throughout his uncle’s later years while he had struggled with his health. Aziraphale should have visited him, and found himself quite unable to fully comprehend why he had not, perhaps waiting for his uncle to send word, always one to wait for a relationship to be established by the other party. It was not within his disposition to do so himself, for it would be too presumptuous, it would shift the status quo, and he felt sure that no one would _choose_ his company. This belief, he reasoned, was confirmed by the fact that no one ever reached out to him. He didn’t quite consider that he didn’t reach out to others either, and might very well evoke similar feelings as a consequence of his actions.

Aziraphale had passed a farm perhaps three miles away along the sodden, muddy bridleway, which was surrounded by brambles and so narrow that their thorns snagged his clothes as the horse progressed. The farm had been the only other sign of human habitation he had witnessed, and he acknowledged that he would need to make the farmer’s acquaintance, the supplies he had been able to carry likely insufficient to sustain him long enough to complete his task. Aziraphale was relieved that he had passed a small shelter by the farm gate, with milk, eggs and bread for sale via an honesty box. At least that way he wouldn’t need to interact with the farmer _too_ often.

Aziraphale dismounted, squinting and then widening his eyes, drawing in as much of the moonlight as possible to survey the scene in front of him. Finding the light woefully insufficient to navigate, he extracted his lantern from his luggage and struck a match to light it, bathing everything in the near vicinity in a warm, orange glow. He led the horse to the crumbling, moss-ridden stable block, relieved to find a supply of decent-quality hay. The water in the trough had long since turned stagnant, so he balanced the lantern on the ground outside and tipped the water out into the hedge, before returning to the stables for a pail to scoop up some relatively fresh water from the pond.

“This will have to do for tonight, my dear,” he murmured apologetically to the sleek, white-grey horse, patting her cheek. She grunted and knocked gently against him as she shuffled up to the trough and began eagerly lapping up the water. “Ah, very good. I’ll be back at sunrise. Sleep well, Chalky.”

Aziraphale latched the door behind him and scooped up the lantern and his luggage, shuffling tentatively through the overgrown garden towards the cottage. Vines of honeysuckle wound their way around and amongst the other plants, choking them. An elder tree, laden with black berries and left to grow too tall, shaded a patch of mallow and yarrow, fallen over and just starting to set seed. A squelch underfoot drew Aziraphale’s attention to the rotten apples littering the ground. He cast his eyes around the garden, spotting the parent tree further up the slope, down which the fruits had apparently rolled. He grimaced and wiped his boot against the bristles of the boot brush at the front door, the iron moulded into the shape of a hedgehog with stiff bristles in the place of spines.

Aziraphale retrieved the key from an envelope in his pocket and admitted himself to the cottage. He left his luggage in the hall and proceeded to the sitting room, placing his lantern on the sideboard. It illuminated a thick layer of dust on the surface of the oak, with further motes suspended in the air. A piece of cake on the side table beside the well-worn armchair had turned green and blue, with black and white blotches protruding from it, surrounded by mouse droppings. A distant but perceptible stench suggested the mouse responsible had since died.

The window frame clattered with each gust of wind and the candle flickered slightly, even contained as it was within the lantern. Aziraphale shivered; he would need to start a fire. Weary from the journey, and his buttocks rather sore from riding the horse, he opted to build the fire in the bedroom and retreat there for the remainder of the evening. He crouched beside the fire, scrunching up newspaper and adding twigs before striking a match to start it. The paper caught quickly, emitting a short burst of intense heat which made Aziraphale shiver even more. Once the kindling was hot, he shook spiders from the logs in the basket and allowed them to scuttle away before adding the logs to the fire.

The floorboard beneath him creaked as he rose from the floor, and the bedroom window rattled ominously in the wind. Without the white noise of the city, every sound demanded Aziraphale’s attention: the scurry of tiny footsteps in the loft, the creaking of swaying branches, the rushing of the wind, the crackle of the fire. He huffed out a long breath and settled himself into the chair beside the fire.

Aziraphale unwrapped the sandwich he had brought with him and ate it quickly. Ordinarily, every meal was something to be savoured, but at this moment he sought only sustenance, not satisfaction. As soon as the fire had warmed the room sufficiently, he changed into his nightclothes and used his lantern to inspect the bed, removing four earwigs, two woodlice, a slug and a house spider the size of a small mouse before clambering up onto it and drawing the threadbare blankets up around him.

The next day, after seeing to Chalky and surveying the cottage, its state of repair leaving much to be desired, Aziraphale prepared himself a proper breakfast and then set to work on the task that had brought him here. His uncle had left the cottage to Aziraphale in his will, but Aziraphale had little interest in it, regretting that his uncle’s will had stipulated that Aziraphale was not permitted to sell it. The will had contained several strange clauses that the solicitor had been unable to explain, including that the cottage must remain in Aziraphale’s family. Given his circumstances, Aziraphale was unsure what provision to make regarding the cottage in his own will, and would need to give this further thought at some point.

His uncle’s writings contained within the will had also made reference to a scarecrow in the field beside the cottage, specifying that it must remain there at all times and never be moved or destroyed. Aziraphale was determined that his uncle had been quite mad at the moment he had sat with the solicitor to draft the document, and could already sense, after merely one night, how living alone in a place like this could trigger a descent into madness.

Despite his reservations about the cottage itself, what did capture Aziraphale’s interest was his uncle’s collection of rare books. Aziraphale had travelled here with the intention of cataloguing them, certain his uncle had some valuable first editions that would fetch quite the price back in London, should Aziraphale ever decide he was willing to part with them. So he spent his days working his way through his uncle’s library, discovering all manner of treasures and recording their details in his ledger, setting some aside that he was determined to take with him when he first journeyed back to the city.

The isolation was oppressive, but almost welcome for its honesty. In London, Aziraphale had been alone yet surrounded by people. In the cottage, there was no other human life for miles. Being truly, unquestioningly alone, with no pressure to consider being anything other, Aziraphale found it to be somewhat comforting, at first.

Were he to venture into the neighbouring field and scream until desperate for breath, there would be no one to hear him. Were he to come to harm, not even a sense of obligation could steer anyone to his aid, for there was no one to steer, not even anyone to pass polite conversation with, no one to notice or care whether he even lived or died. If he _were_ to die here, Aziraphale realised, years may pass before he was eventually discovered. Would his body resemble the cake on the table beside the armchair, or would it be left to decay even longer, spiders callously using his ribs as a framework to construct their webs, attracting further death to his bare skeleton, silk-wrapped corpses of flies hanging into a cavity that had once housed his heart? It was fitting, however, that he should be entirely alone. After all, he was the only one left.

With each progressive phase of the moon, the haunting of Aziraphale’s mind by dark thoughts intensified. They possessed him like a creature, a serpent that wrapped itself around his brain, its fangs latched on tight. He had heard that submergence in water could force a snake to relinquish its grasp in order to seek air, so Aziraphale hung the iron kettle above the fire in the bedroom and filled it repeatedly, pouring the water into the copper bath tub until it was nearly full. He stripped naked and lowered himself into it, scalding water splashing over the edges as he submerged himself fully, holding his head under the water. He counted the seconds, unsure which being, man or serpent, could hold its breath for longer.

_I could drown here_ , his thoughts continued. _No one would know. I could become trapped in the cellar if the door slammed shut behind me. A branch could fall from a tree and crush me, but death would not come instantly, and I would simply lie there with only the pain for company and wait patiently for its arrival. What thoughts should come to me then, entirely alone, with no hope, no future, not even a present within my control? Would it be panic or peace? A blanket of acceptance, knowing those moments were all there would ever be for me? Responsibility, obligation, intent to do anything other... they would all be gone, and I would be free. I want to be free._

Aziraphale lifted his head up above the surface of the water and gulped down a long, deep breath. Death was not freedom, it was merely _absence_ , and despite his hopes as he had fled the city, there was no freedom to be found in this isolation either. A buzzing invaded his mind and refused to be silenced. There was but the rising and setting of the sun, reminding him that time still passed, but he hardly believed it, feeling as though he had been removed from it, plucked from life and time and space, planted here in this neverworld of crows and rain, rattling windows and rotten beams. He pondered, does only truly exist if one is alone? Could one ever truly be alive if one never shared oneself with another?

Aziraphale did find some peace amongst the books in the library, and sometimes allowed himself to become distracted from his work cataloguing them, flipping them open and starting to read, not realising how much time had passed until his eyes began to ache as the light slipped away with yet another cycle of the sun. But he would oftentimes read something humorous or profound, which drew soft laughter or a contemplative hum from his chest, but with no one around to hear it, such responses lacked meaning.

All in all, he considered darkly, it did not matter, for even if he had shared his life with another soul, someone to join in his laughter and debate the finer points of philosophy, those memories would simply become etched into two minds, rather than one, both destined to decay to nothing mere decades later. _Everything_ would be gone one day, the world would come to an end, and what meaning would there be to any of this then?

When the buzzing between his ears became too loud, Aziraphale would indeed walk out into the neighbouring field, but it was not, as he had previously considered, in order to scream; it was to converse with the scarecrow. Aziraphale had read about experiments conducted with gull chicks, in which they would open their mouths for a stick with a red dot painted on it as if the stick were a parent that could feed them. This instinct, it seemed, had developed not to ensure the chicks would truly recognise their parents, but was just enough to prompt them to beg for food.

It could be true for a man too, he considered, that he did not truly need a living, breathing soul to fulfil an instinctive need for human company. Perhaps something that simply _resembled_ a man could be sufficient to satisfy the instinct and silence the buzzing. A companion to which, or _whom_ , he could speak aloud and pat on the shoulder as parting words were delivered, enough to fool his mind into believing in true conversation. And thus, he visited the scarecrow.

It was a tatty, dishevelled thing, abandoned in the field with little, if any, care and attention afforded to it. Aziraphale could almost relate to it in that latter respect, although he, like the scarecrow, had never solicited such, although secretly he had longed for it. There seemed to be nothing special about the scarecrow, certainly nothing to warrant the clause in the will forbidding its removal or destruction.

The scarecrow was taller than Aziraphale, perhaps six feet or slightly more, a long, loose linen shirt that might once have been white draped across its upper body, with more modern overalls, matching those Aziraphale had found in his uncle’s wardrobe, fastened over it. The scarecrow was stuffed full of straw, which peeked out from the rips in its shirt. Its hair had been created from the peeled bark of dogwood, forming harsh crimson curls around its face. Some of the curls had been brought up and weaved together at the back, resembling a small bun, where a robin had chosen the scarecrow’s head as the perfect place to construct a nest, and had interlaced twigs with the bark curls in the process. The scarecrow’s eyes were nothing more than shimmering gold marbles, and in place of a mouth, a flat line of red thread had been stitched into the white fabric that formed its face.

Why the scarecrow should not be removed was particularly unclear in light of the fact that it was clearly ineffective in the performance of its duty. The scarecrow was surrounded by the oil-black feathers of dozens of corvids and the remains of the crops they had plundered. Still, Aziraphale would not _wish_ to move it, his visits to the scarecrow providing structure, routine and companionship in an otherwise meaningless abyss of nondescript days punctuated only by fitful bouts of sleep.

At first, Aziraphale simply shared a few trivial words in greeting as he passed the scarecrow on his walks through the field, permitting such apparent silliness, for whoever would know or care? He began to remark on the weather, the murmurations of the starlings, the proximity of the first frosts as the countryside transitioned towards winter. It helped, hearing his own voice aloud, confirming he was still capable of speech, for without it he felt little more than the scarecrow itself, unmoving, unspeaking, as the seasons shifted around it.

It was challenging, even after being alone for quite some time, to shake off the conditioning of society and his indoctrination into behaviours that were deemed proper, normal, _acceptable_. But Aziraphale was indeed truly alone, and so determined that he should behave however he so wished. In this context, however, he found himself unsure of who he really was, or would be, _should_ be in the absence such conditioning, for where did the control and moulding of society end, and oneself truly begin?

As no one had ever taken the time to know him, and he apparently did not even know himself, once again Aziraphale found himself wondering whether he had ever truly been alive. If he didn’t really exist, then what was he? Simply a creature responding to stimulus in the manner of a moray eel retreating from a shadow, or a sunflower tilting towards the sun?

It took more courage and effort than it should have to break free, but Aziraphale did begin to spend more time with the scarecrow. There was a madness to it, and Aziraphale realised that perhaps it was _madness_ that was liberation, and so permitted it, encouraged it, and told the scarecrow of the books in his uncle’s collection, his musings on the changing scientific and theological theories, his progress with the cataloguing, his intentions for the books when he left the cottage. He even began to vocalise his existential musings, and his desire to be free.

One day, when Aziraphale headed for the scarecrow, he found it serving as a perch to a flock of jackdaws, so audacious that they barely even registered his approach.

“Oh, good heavens! Shoo! Shoo!”

The jackdaws reluctantly scattered.

“Oh, my dear, I’m terribly sorry about that. They really should show you more respect, don’t you think? Well, of course you do. I wonder if I might be able to help? Perhaps a hat? It might make you appear more intimidating. I might bring you a scarf as well; the nights are cold now, are they not?”

Aziraphale returned to the house and retrieved one of his uncle’s black, wide-brimmed hats and one of his own tartan scarves. He reached up to the back of the scarecrow’s head, untangling the robin’s nest from amongst the crimson fibres and threading the bark through his fingers until the tight curls sat neatly around the scarecrow’s face. He settled the hat onto its head and draped the scarf around its shoulders, and then, dissatisfied, reached back up to wrap the scarf properly around its neck.

“Much better. You shouldn’t stand for any of their nonsense, you know. I certainly won’t. If I see that happen again, I’ll be right out here to scare them away, don’t you worry,” he reassured the scarecrow with a smile. “Oh dear, what has become of me? Do you know, you are the closest thing I have to a friend?”

Aziraphale adjusted the hat and scarf one final time, taking a step back to admire his work and beaming proudly at the scarecrow. He stepped back towards it to place both palms flat against its chest, the straw beneath the linen shirt giving way easily under the light pressure of his touch, and then he retired to the cottage.


	2. Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale wakes to find he's not alone in his bedroom...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c/w - talk of wanting to die

“Help... help me...”

A voice permeated the oppressive quiet of the bedroom, seeming to scratch and claw like fingernails through dirt, its strength withering away with each syllable uttered. Aziraphale gasped and sat straight up in bed.

“Who’s there?” he panted instinctively, inevitably receiving only silence in response. Aziraphale fumbled around on the bedside table, his palm landing awkwardly on the box of matches, which he retrieved with shaking hands, several of the matches falling from the box as he opened it, skittering across the floorboards. The matches on the floor were joined by others as Aziraphale reached his trembling fingers inside, finally managing to grasp one and strike it against the side of the box once, then twice, then three times before it slipped from his fingers unlit. He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and tried again, extracting another match, clutching the box more tightly in his left hand as he repeated his attempts to strike it. Too much time was passing, his heart pounding and his mind whirring with the knowledge that anyone or anything could be lurking in the shadows in the meantime.

Eventually, the match caught, Aziraphale unable to suppress the ironic instinct to close his eyes briefly as he sighed with relief, touching the flame to the candle on the bedside table. _There is no intruder, there was no voice, it was nothing but a nightmare_ , he reassured himself, but at least now he would be able to search the room to put his mind at rest. He clasped his hand around the base of the candle holder and held it up, the soft glow permeating the room, his eyes searching, expecting to find nothing out of place. Contrary to expectations, his eyes were drawn to an unfamiliar shape on the floor that had not been present when he had climbed into bed.

Aziraphale’s entire body jerked with shock, a gasp escaping his lungs as he leapt back without conscious thought, his hand twitching in the process, involuntarily relinquishing its grasp on the candle holder, which thudded dully against the floorboards. The flame was immediately extinguished, plunging Aziraphale back into darkness. This darkness was more oppressive than before, the brief light of the candle having temporarily interfered with the adaptation of Aziraphale’s eyes. Of greater concern, he now _knew_ there was something in the room with him, and could no longer find comfort in the hope of imagination.

Aziraphale’s throat seemed to close, preventing speech, but what good would it do to address a silent intruder besides? He slid from the bed, his eyes pricking with tears and nausea rising in his stomach, crouching down and fumbling around for the candle, his mind awash with sensation as the adrenaline coursing through his blood forced each of his senses onto high alert. The rattling of the windows was unbearably loud, his muscles tensing in response to the hindrance to his attempts to listen for unexplained movement. His hands moved frantically rather than systematically across the floorboards, and once he had retrieved the candle, he scurried back onto the bed, a single tear falling as he attempted once again to strike a match.

With the candle relit, Aziraphale sent out a silent prayer and stepped back down, the wooden floor so cold that the soles of his feet were left stinging, contrasting with the flush of fear emanating from his chest. He held the candle out towards the door, the light dancing over the inanimate form, the _scarecrow_ , as it lay on the floor.

Aziraphale stood, himself as still as the scarecrow, listening intently for any sound to indicate an intruder. Hearing nothing, he searched the room, peering under the bed and opening the wardrobe, before stepping over the scarecrow to frantically search the rest of the house. He rushed from room to room, the vice-like grip of panic permitting no space to question _why_ this had happened, his thoughts trained only on the fact that someone had broken into the cottage and carried the scarecrow to his bedroom, and that they may still be lurking somewhere. The floorboards squeaked beneath his feet as he advanced through the house, working his way between the rooms as quietly and methodically as he could given his urgency, allowing no intruder the opportunity to slip past him. What he would do if he were to actually encounter someone had not been determined; his thoughts had not progressed that far.

 _You are alone_ , his mind insisted.

_I cannot be, for it is there!_

_But you are. There is no one here._

Aziraphale’s thorough search of the house, which even took him down to the damp, icy cold cellar, yielded no intruder. With trembling hands he pulled his coat over his nightclothes, trying and failing several times to push his arms into the sleeves, and searched outside, the misty rain catching in his hair and sending shivers through his body. There were footprints in the mud leading to the house, but retracing them led Aziraphale only to the field, and there were prints of neither feet nor hooves along the road. There seemed to be only one explanation.

Aziraphale shuddered and pulled his coat more tightly across his body, folding his arms across his chest and pressing hard against the cold, which crept in from the chill of the night air, and crept out from the unsettling tendrils that weaved their way through his insides, born of thoughts of what had happened. He returned to the bedroom, still wearing his coat, and sank down onto the floor beside the scarecrow, leaning back against one of the cold iron legs of the bed frame.

“I fear I am losing my mind,” he moaned, his head flopping backwards and knocking painfully against the metallic frame. It was the only logical explanation. There was no intruder. There was no one for miles, and certainly no one with anything to gain by sneaking through the field and depositing a scarecrow in his bedroom. This could all be explained by his own madness.

“Oh, my dear, do you know, I read a story about a scarecrow yesterday, and what he very much wanted was a brain. Is that what is happening here? I am losing my mind and perhaps you are taking it?” he chuckled humourlessly. A thought occurred to him then, that perhaps the intruder was concealed _within_ the scarecrow, lying in wait in his bedroom for him to fall back to sleep, although it seemed unlikely that any further sleep would be forthcoming this night.

“You are not a man, are you?” he croaked, reaching out to touch the scarecrow. Feeling no warmth or movement, he fell forward onto his knees and ran his hands over its chest, pulling at the rips in its shirt, pushing his fingers through to feel the straw. “Oh, of course you are not. There is only one explanation, for I am the only person here. I must walk in my sleep, and I fetched you here. I had not realised that my loneliness had begun to affect me so severely! Am I really so desperate for company? Is this how badly I desire to take a man to my bed?”

Already flushed with fear, the tips of Aziraphale’s cheeks now burned in response to his confession, and he brought up a hand to cover his face. Such reactions were completely ingrained, unrelenting despite his isolation. “My apologies, dear, that was a rather inappropriate admission. Besides, were that the case I’m sure I would have at least carried you to the bed, rather than dropping you so inelegantly onto the floor. I do apologise.”

One of the curls of bark had fallen across the scarecrow’s face, so Aziraphale reached out to brush it aside. “My uncle’s will stated quite clearly that you were to remain in the field, my dear. I have never been rebellious, not even when perhaps I should have been! If I let you stay inside the cottage, you must not tell anyone. It will be our secret. You will keep me company, and you will prefer it too, I feel. It is warmer inside, when the fires are burning at least, and there are no jackdaws to harass you, nor robins to make nests in your hair. Perhaps I should trust that my sleeping mind knows what is best for me.”

In reality, Aziraphale feared that if he carried the scarecrow back outside, his craving for human contact might drive him to do the same again, and there was no shortage of scenarios his mind conjured of what could happen to him whilst he traipsed around outside, alone in his nightclothes in the cold night air, unconscious.

Aziraphale carried the scarecrow back downstairs, settling it onto the sofa, drawing a woollen blanket across its lap.

“I’m sure you will be comfortable here. I must try to get some more sleep. Goodnight, my dear.”

“Help me.... help me ‘zira...phale...”

Once more gasping for breath Aziraphale leapt up, immediately scrambling out of the covers, crawling to the end of the bed and leaning over the bed frame, sure he would find the scarecrow once more deposited there on the floor. The first light of dawn was streaming in through the window, and through the pale haze, Aziraphale could see that, in fact, the floor was just as it had been when he had returned to bed after carrying the scarecrow downstairs. This time, apparently, it had been entirely a dream. Aziraphale drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall backwards, laying his head down on the pillow.

“Help...”

Completely conscious now, Aziraphale’s head whipped around towards the sound, and _there_ was the scarecrow, lying on the bed beside him. Aziraphale gasped and scooted back, crouching on his haunches at the corner of the bed, staring down at the scarecrow, the bed frame creaking under the influence of his trembling. The red stitching of the scarecrow's mouth parted.

“Pleassssse.”

“No!” Aziraphale screamed, stumbling backwards and falling onto the floor with a loud thud before clambering to his feet, aching where his back had hit the floorboards. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Oh, please, spare me this madness! Is there something in the air? The water? I need to get out of here!”

“No.... pleasssse. Be not... afraid,” the scarecrow choked, spitting straw from the mouth that had formed beneath the gold marbles of its eyes. Aziraphale retreated further, his aching back slamming harshly against the wall. “Real...”

“Stop! Dear Lord, my saviour, _please_!” Aziraphale begged, squeezing his eyes tightly closed and pressing his palms together in prayer.

“Curssssed,” the scarecrow hissed desperately. “Help...”

Aziraphale opened his eyes and licked his lips, tasting the salt of the tears that had streamed down his face. He desperately tried to reassure himself: he could head back to the city straight away, call on a doctor, identify what had poisoned him and corrupted his mind, find a cure, and everything would be fine. Yet it gnawed at him, the possibility that everything he had heard about his ancestors was true, that magic had a place in the real world, that the impossible was in fact nothing of the sort, and that this was actually _happening_ , rather than simply the creation of a diseased mind.

Settling trembling fingers onto the bed sheet, Aziraphale crept back up onto the bed and shuffled towards the scarecrow. The sun continued to rise, brightening the room, revealing more of the detail of the preternatural creature that lay before him. Its eyes were still gold marbles, but they moved as if held by sockets, unblinking like a snake. The stitched pattern of its mouth had been torn open, the origin of the scarecrow’s unsettling utterings, but besides these changes, it still very much appeared as before. Straw stuffing still leaked from the rips in its shirt, its skin nothing but taut fabric and the harsh curls of bark still framing its face, but the scarecrow was no longer entirely inanimate, its chest rising and falling as if drawing breath. Aziraphale reached out and placed a hand on its chest as before, encountering more resistance than last time, finding something solid beneath the straw, a gentle warmth radiating from it.

“If I am sick I must return to the city as soon as possible,” he reasoned aloud, “so I cannot entertain this delusion, if that is indeed what it is, for long. If you wish to persuade me that I am not mad, I cannot give you much time to do so.”

“Grimoire... find it...”

“What is that?”

“Ssssshe lived here.”

“I don’t understand!”

“’m real... not mad... pleasssse. Mussst thank... you. Kindness.”

Aziraphale huffed with frustration and buried his head in his hands. “What is happening?”

“You... cared.”

“I _what_?”

“Birds. Scarf. Hat. Blanket. Words. Touch. Cared. Help me. Pleasssse,” the scarecrow spluttered against another mouthful of straw, coughing it onto the bed sheets.

“I don’t understand! I don’t know what you want me to do!”

“ _Kill_ me.”

“ _What_?”

“Pleassse. Fire...”

“No! Absolutely not! I have never killed anything! I don’t think I could! Besides, why ever would you want such a thing? Perhaps I am not mad indeed, for I can think of no poison that could contort my mind to suggest such a terrible thing! But then, if I am not mad... oh... if this is truly happening, is that not _worse_?”

Aziraphale clasped his hands together in a gesture of prayer and pressed them hard against each other, interlinking his fingers. He lowered his face, leaning his forehead against his joined hands.

“’m cold...”

Aziraphale sighed heavily and shook his head. “I refuse to light the fire. But here,” he offered, reaching towards the bottom of the bed to retrieve the blankets he had shoved away in his panic and pulling them up over the scarecrow until they sat just beneath what constituted its chin.

“Don’t go. Not mad. Stay.”

“Yes, all right. I will stay and I will figure out what is going on, but only if you promise you will not go anywhere near any fires. I can’t have you risking your life. Do we have an agreement?”

“Yessss.”

“What did you wish for me to find?” Aziraphale asked, choking on his words despite making every effort to maintain his composure. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be, but it was.

“Grimoire. Book. Witch book. Curse.”

The scarecrow’s words were suggesting that the rumours about Aziraphale’s family might indeed have been true. He couldn’t deny that it was _possible_ that perhaps one of his ancestors had put a spell, a _curse_ , on a man, turning him into this form. If that _were_ true, how long had he been out there, entirely alone? Had he been aware of the passage of time?

_Oh! The will! The instruction that the scarecrow must not be removed!_

This was _most certainly_ real. It was actually happening. Aziraphale’s heart lurched, no longer from fear for himself, but something else. He visualised the scarecrow’s existence, unending days in total isolation, unable to move, to speak, to breathe, without even the luxury of death as an escape. There was no telling how long he had been out there, he must certainly have been driven to madness, and yet... he had thanked Aziraphale for simple acts of _kindness_.

Aziraphale headed straight for his uncle’s library, ignoring the rumbling of his stomach. He had already come across a section dedicated to the occult but had not yet catalogued it, preferring instead to prioritise those books in which he actually had an interest. He had never believed in magic or witchcraft, but a full re-evaluation of his understanding of the world would have to wait. He needed to find a way to help the scarecrow, or rather the _man_ within it.

Forcing himself to work through the books methodically, Aziraphale pulled them from the shelves one at a time, flicking through them, searching for anything that might hold details of a curse. He suspected the book he was searching for would be handwritten, and after an hour had passed with no success, he stepped back from the shelves and abandoned his systematic approach, instead favouring the larger, unmarked tomes on the top shelf. His hands began to tremble once again when he finally found what he was looking for. He clutched it tightly against his chest, rushing back to the bedroom.

“I think I found it!” Aziraphale announced proudly, then halted in the doorway, leaning against the frame for support. The scarecrow had rolled onto its, _his_ , back, and his appearance had shifted once more. The bright gold colour of the marbles embedded into his face had faded, now clear orbs with dark brown centres, each resembling the iris of a human eye. Thin lips, lined with red stitching, surrounded his mouth, and the taut white fabric of his face was flushed with colour. “Oh, my!” Aziraphale nearly dropped the book, but managed to grasp it more tightly, raising it up in an attempt to hide his face.

“S’good. Better.”

“What’s happening to you?”

“You.”

“What about me?”

“She said no one would ever care. Showing she’s wrong. Weakening the curse.”

“Why ever would no one care about you? You’re not... oh, dear... you’re not a _murderer_ , are you?”

The scarecrow growled and lifted himself into a seated position. Aziraphale’s attention was drawn to his wiry, but now almost human, hands.

“A doctor. I’m a doctor. _Saved_ lives. I promise.”

“Then why would someone do this to you?”

“Her baby was sick. I did everything I could. I swear, I did everything,” the scarecrow choked, moisture seeping out from beneath one of his orb-like eyes and trickling down his face. He began to cough, his body shuddering violently. He reached up, using his long, wiry fingers to withdraw a long piece of straw from the back of his throat, gagging and heaving.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t try to talk too much. Would you like to see the book? You can show me what you wanted me to find?” The scarecrow nodded jerkily in response. “Oh my goodness, I’ve just realised, I do not know your name!”

“Crowley.”

“As in scare- _crow_?” Aziraphale ventured. Crowley scowled and his thin lips parted in a manner that should have housed gritted teeth, but revealed only a row of tiny wooden stumps.

“No! That is my name!” He coughed up another piece of straw and drew it slowly from his mouth, grimacing and dropping it to the floor.

“Oh. I see,” Aziraphale mumbled sheepishly. “My apologies, _Crowley_. Here.” Aziraphale placed the book on the bed, and Crowley reached towards it with abrupt, jerking movements of his arms. Aziraphale’s eyes widened, but for fear of causing offence, he forced himself to turn away. Crowley began frantically leafing through the book, flicking between the pages in no apparent order, until his hands stilled, the pages fell open in front of him and he froze in place. “May I see?” Aziraphale ventured.

Crowley pushed the book towards Aziraphale and leaned back against the bed frame. With a cautious glance in the scarecrow’s direction, Aziraphale reached out and rotated the book around to face him. There was a large sigil drawn across the page, with a verse scrawled beside it.

_I curse thee to an eternal prison of straw,_

_To be a shadow, an echo, a man no more._

_Thou shalt draw no respect, thou shalt suffer as one,_

_Whilst thine mind finds no peace for what thou hast done._

_No one will care for thee, no kindness thee receive,_

_Although this be but a shadow of how I grieve!_

_Forever is thine, no release by death,_

_No liberation granted, no final breath._

_I deliver thee eternity in thine solitary hell,_

_I draw on my blood to bind this spell._

“Oh Crowley, that is just awful!” Aziraphale was uncomfortably aware that his words were beyond insufficient, however, surely _all_ words would be insufficient. “What can I do?”

“Just stay. Stay with me now. Be here,” Crowley croaked, patting the bed beside him before pushing the book aside and stretching out over the bed, his long legs reaching the bottom. Aziraphale’s eyes widened and his pulse quickened even more, but he did as asked, crawling onto the bed beside Crowley and laying his head down on the pillow, facing him. “Thank you,” Crowley whispered.

Aziraphale’s face twitched into a brief, obligatory smile before he rolled his head back, facing the ceiling. His eyes trailed over the deep cracks running through the beams, contemplating their patterns, determined to focus on anything but the thought of the inhuman entity that lay beside him, but rapidly failing to do so. Crowley had said that Aziraphale’s care and attention had transformed him into his current state, an unnerving creature equidistant between man and scarecrow, that this had somehow weakened the curse, although of course it had not broken it. Aziraphale allowed himself to consider, were he to withdraw that care and attention, would Crowley return to his previous form, which Aziraphale could carry back out to the field and never think of again?

As this thought rumbled through his mind, Aziraphale heard the rustling of bed sheets, then felt the tips of wiry fingers trace tentatively over his own, pressing down weakly but insistently into the gaps between his fingers until their hands were entwined together, Crowley’s palm covering the back of his hand.

Oh, how could he have ever entertained such a thought? Much kinder it would be to simply light the fire and leave the room, allow the man to finally put an end to his prolonged suffering! Aziraphale’s eyes flicked over to the fire, lingering for a moment, as he drew in slow, purposeful breaths, the sensation of those stiff, inhuman fingers interlaced with his own sending tendrils of stimulation up through his arm and into his chest. His heartbeat echoed loudly in his ears, and the pillowcase rustled in time with it.

Aziraphale turned back to the ceiling and squeezed his eyes shut tightly. He had to do _something_. He could not in good conscience leave Crowley in this state, for even if Crowley _had_ been dishonest about what had happened, no man, no matter his crimes, deserved a punishment greater than that which Crowley had already endured. Once again, the thoughts of an isolation spanning centuries flashed across Aziraphale’s mind, his insides clenching, his eyes scrunching even more tightly closed, and his hand... reflexively turning itself over to fully clasp Crowley’s.

A strangled moan escaped the scarecrow’s lips, settling into the illusion of deep, sighing breaths as he squeezed Aziraphale’s hand with tremendous force.

“Yessss.”

Crowley’s panting breaths, his sighs of pleasure, made Aziraphale feel that he had done something illicit, but he would struggle to withdraw his hand from Crowley’s now had he wanted to. He found that he did _not_ want to. There must be _something_ he could do to help him, something in the grimoire perhaps about how to break the spell? He determined that he would study the book, and the others in the occult section of his uncle’s library, praying that his intelligence and education would be sufficient for the task. He feared that he had spent so many years refusing to believe in magic, his mind might not be able to see through the riddles to determine what was needed.

“Crowley...” Aziraphale began, his voice quiet and unsure. He cleared his throat before continuing. “I should return to the library. I must search for the means to help you.”

A few seconds passed before Aziraphale felt the wiry fingers retreat, relinquishing his hand. He immediately sat up and shuffled over to the edge of the bed, standing and opening the wardrobe, from which he withdrew another blanket. He placed it down neatly beside Crowley.

“In case you are cold. Do you need to eat?” Aziraphale asked without really thinking, his eyes running over the scarecrow’s body trying to determine whether such a thing might be required or even possible. Crowley simply shook his head. “Very well, I shall be in the library. Make yourself comfortable.”

As soon as Aziraphale stepped out of the bedroom, he unconsciously flexed the hand Crowley had been holding a few times. He diverted to the kitchen, retrieving a slice of bread, breaking a piece off and pushing it reluctantly into his mouth. He felt nauseated, but knew he must consume something. He took the remainder of the slice with him to the library, and spent the morning searching determinedly through occult tomes. The air was so cold that it disrupted his concentration and chilled him right through to his aching bones, but he did not dare light the fire. Instead, he rubbed his hands vigorously up and down his arms, and occasionally rose from his chair to pace about the room, both to generate warmth and in an attempt to dispel his frustration. He was so far out of his depth, and what would happen if he failed? Would Crowley simply remain this way forever? And was Aziraphale’s continued kindness a condition of even that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you're enjoying the spookiness! As always, your comments and kudos mean so much to me! <3


	3. Companionship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley get to know each other better and enjoy each other's company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c/w - as before there is some talk of contemplating suicide

By the evening, Aziraphale’s teeth were chattering and he knew he had no choice; he absolutely needed to light a fire. Otherwise, he might very well freeze to death in this leaky, crumbling, uninsulated cottage, a turn of events which would certainly condemn Crowley to return to his eternal prison. How strange, Aziraphale considered, that such a thing should be his first concern upon contemplating his own death.

Aziraphale retired from the library to the sitting room, where he found Crowley sitting on the sofa with his legs curled up beneath him and covered by three blankets, which were doing nothing to prevent him from shivering.

“I’m going to light the fire,” Aziraphale announced, his breath visible in the air. Crowley nodded vigorously. “Remember our agreement. I’m trusting you.”

“Thank you.”

Aziraphale huffed out a breath and knelt down in front of the fire, cleaning out the remnants of his last fire, hands shaking from cold. He built the fire and, after once again struggling to light a match, albeit his hands trembling for a different reason this time, the flames burst forth with vigour and Aziraphale leaned into the heat. He threw the matchstick into the fire and rubbed his hands together briskly.

Aziraphale nodded with satisfaction towards the fire and then headed for the kitchen, hurriedly retrieving a saucepan of soup, eyes frequently turning back towards the doorway in the process to check for any movement from Crowley, before returning and placing the saucepan over the fire.

“Ah, I can already feel the difference,” Aziraphale said with a smile, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. “I shall leave it as it is with the airflow, it will burn through the wood rapidly but that’s all right, we have plenty and I think we both deserve to enjoy the warmth. My soup will cook more quickly as well, and I must say I am famished! I had no idea that the study of occult texts would be so draining.”

“Thank you for trying to help me.”

“Oh, of course, my dear. How could I not?”

“You could have chosen not to. If you withdrew your attention, I would undoubtedly return to my prior form.”

A wave of guilt flooded over Aziraphale, burning from the inside, reaching out to coagulate with the heat of the fire as it warmed his skin, a flush developing on his cheeks. It seemed brave of Crowley to mention such a thing, was he not concerned that it could put ideas into Aziraphale’s mind? Perhaps not, Aziraphale reasoned, were Crowley aware that he had entertained such thoughts already.

“I do not believe I could ever harm _anyone_ in such a way.”

“You are pure of heart, Aziraphale.”

The flush grew more pronounced, and Aziraphale hoped Crowley would merely interpret it as his skin’s response to the ever-growing heat emanating from the fire. As expected, the first log had already almost entirely burned up, and Aziraphale turned his back to Crowley, crouching down to deposit another.

“I may not know anything of this era, but I have known many people, and I find it unlikely that the nature of humanity would have changed so dramatically. That you brush off my compliment serves only to affirm my belief. You are a good man.”

Aziraphale remained crouched by the fire but his head whipped around. He disregarded Crowley’s words in favour of analysing the manner in which they had been delivered.

“You sound different,” he observed.

“Yes. Speech comes more easily now. My condition improved with each moment you spent working in the library. Thank you.”

“Well, that is wonderful! Perhaps now, if you would be comfortable to do so, would you like to try talking about what actually happened to you?” Aziraphale hoped to deflect the conversation onto a topic other than himself and his nature, and rose from his position by the fire to stand closer to Crowley. “You said the witch’s baby died? That she blamed you?”

“I am a doctor. She had called on me when her baby became sick. I had seen the symptoms before, treated many children afflicted similarly. I slipped the medicine into an apple puree, to improve the taste for the child. He died shortly after, and the apples were found to have been poisoned. She blamed me, but I did nothing, I swear! I could never harm a child! How could _anyone_ harm a child? I spent many years thinking it over, and I am certain it must have been the action of someone seeking revenge, perhaps someone she had harmed with her witchcraft, but there had been no reasoning with her. She took everything from me; she said death was too good for me, that no length of time spent suffering could equate to the pain of losing a child. I was powerless.” Once again, moisture seeped out from behind his orb-like eyes, staining the fabric of his cheeks. “Please believe me. I did no harm.”

“Oh, of course I believe you, my dear!”

Aziraphale hovered awkwardly, fighting an instinct to sit beside Crowley, to comfort him, his reluctance to yield to such urges born of propriety, perhaps. Crowley’s body loosened and he flopped forward, cradling his head in his hands, the sounds emerging from him reminiscent of muffled sobs, and Aziraphale could no longer restrain himself. He flung himself down onto the sofa with such force that a cloud of dust puffed up into the air around him, and wrapped his arm around Crowley’s back, drawing him close to him.

“I cannot begin to imagine what you have been through, but _of course_ I believe you, and I will do anything I can to help you. It’ll be all right, you’ll be all right.”

The deeper revelation of Crowley’s words made Aziraphale’s heart ache. Crowley had indeed been fully conscious during his time as a scarecrow, a fate more harrowing than the worst torments Aziraphale could imagine. At least with imprisonment, even torture, one could seek solace in the knowledge that it could not be forever, that one day, eventually, death would come, and with it, one’s _freedom_.

“When...” Aziraphale began uncertainly, swallowing hard and pressing his palm more firmly to Crowley’s shoulder blade as his arm lay across his back. Aziraphale cleared his throat. “When did this happen to you?”

“1394.”

“ _What_? You’ve been stuck here since the _fourteenth century_? Oh no, that can’t be! Please say that isn’t so! Over five hundred years! How did you endure it?”

“I would not have, had I the choice.” Aziraphale’s stomach lurched at Crowley’s inference once again that he would have chosen to end his life. “The days simply kept coming. I felt every emotion as I had as a man. The overwhelming fear, the isolation, it burned within me, relentlessly, every single day. Eventually my mind fell silent and I fell into a waking sleep. Someone has always lived here, but no one has truly spoken to me, not until you. They have shouted at me to perform better, dressed me up occasionally, but never _spoken_. I woke up for you. I wanted to know you. I did not anticipate the changes that would happen within me.”

Aziraphale suddenly felt very warm. He withdrew his arm from around Crowley and adjusted his collar, his hands then settling in his lap, where he proceeded to fidget with them.

“What can I do? I want to help you.”

“You have already helped me.”

“I want to do more. I want to do whatever I can! I will return to the library as soon as I have eaten, I promise!”

Reminded of his soup, Aziraphale retrieved the saucepan from the fire, slipping a heatproof glove over his hand and lifting it by the handle, carrying it into the kitchen. He placed it down on the cork trivet and then pressed his palms against the kitchen counter, sighing and closing his eyes. He did not rush this time.

Crowley had been _conscious_. Conscious, alone and immobilised for over _five hundred_ _years_.

Aziraphale did not listen for movement from the sitting room. Painstakingly slowly he retrieved a bowl from the cupboard and poured soup into it from the saucepan. He pulled open the cutlery drawer and extracted a soup spoon, placing it down beside the bowl. He opened the bread bin, withdrawing two thick slices. He went back to the cupboard for a plate to put them on. He took a deep breath and placed his bowl of soup, his plate of bread and his spoon onto a tray. He poured himself a glass of water from the jug beside the sink. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, counting each breath. After ten, he lifted the tray and headed back towards the sitting room, preparing himself by formulating an image in his mind of what he expected to find, the burnt remnants of straw scattered about the fireplace.

Instead, he found Crowley on his hands and knees in front of the fire, gazing into it. Aziraphale’s mouth hung open as he studied him.

“It could do with another log,” Crowley murmured.

“Right, of course.” Aziraphale settled the tray down on the small table next to the fireside armchair and crouched down beside Crowley, tapping a log against the hearth to dislodge any critters before placing it onto the fire. He turned and stared incredulously at Crowley, who met his gaze.

“I promised you. You should not have doubted me.”

“You deserved the option,” Aziraphale croaked, a tear slipping from his eye. “I would want the same.”

Crowley’s unblinking eyes turned away from Aziraphale and back to the fire.

“I always swore I would not hesitate,” Crowley confessed. “That if I ever had the chance, I would end my life at the first opportunity. The risk of returning to that state would be too great to do otherwise. Besides, what would I have to live for?”

“But you didn’t...”

“I find I might have something to live for after all.” Crowley rotated his body towards Aziraphale and reached his hands up, placing them gently on Aziraphale’s shoulders and smiling, baring his stump-like teeth. “You should eat your soup before it gets cold.”

“Oh. Oh yes, I probably should. Yes. Rather.”

The two of them rose from the floor, Aziraphale settling himself into the armchair and drawing a blanket over his knees before lifting the tray and placing it on his lap.

“You do not believe you could eat something?” Aziraphale ventured hopefully.

“No, I suspect it would not a good idea to partake in food. I dare to imagine what might happen,” Crowley grimaced.

Aziraphale flicked his eyes up to Crowley and smiled awkwardly, hoping to convey sympathy. He broke off the corner of one of the slices of bread and dipped it into the soup before bringing it to his lips. He had not eaten since that hurried slice of cold bread in the morning, thus the taste of the soup and its warmth on his tongue sent a surge of pleasure humming through his body. He moaned involuntarily.

“Oh! I apologise, my dear! How terribly thoughtless I am!”

“Not at all,” Crowley replied softly. He rested his elbow on his leg and his chin on his hand, leaning forward to watch Aziraphale. “I shall enjoy experiencing food vicariously,” he smiled.

* * *

As the final leaves fell from the trees and the berries ripened on the hawthorn tree outside, Aziraphale continued his study of the occult texts, gradually losing hope of finding a means to restore Crowley to his human form. That first day, Crowley’s transformation had been rapid, and Aziraphale had hoped perhaps it would continue, with him gradually and eventually becoming human, but that was apparently not to be so. His form had been fixed for several weeks now, no matter how much care and attention Aziraphale afforded him.

Crowley was still unable to eat, but seemed to enjoy watching Aziraphale do so, and Aziraphale found himself exaggerating his enjoyment of his food, for this seemed to please Crowley. They shared the bed each night, Crowley unceasingly reaching out towards Aziraphale not long after they had retired, such that they generally fell asleep with their fingers entwined. On more than one occasion, Aziraphale had woken to find Crowley curled up against him, his head resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Studying Crowley to ensure he was asleep, Aziraphale would tentatively reach out and brush his hair, still nothing but the stiff coils of peeled dogwood bark, away from his face, or to smooth his thumb back and fore over Crowley’s shoulder.

Aziraphale had left Crowley alone beside the fire in order to withdraw to the library on more occasions than he could count. Every time he headed back to the sitting room he would hesitate in the doorway, steeling himself for what he might find, but as he pushed open the door, he would only ever be greeted by the sight of Crowley smiling as if there were nothing he would rather behold than Aziraphale.

Crowley had found ways to keep himself busy whilst Aziraphale was studying. Neither of them had spoken of it, but Aziraphale had noticed the minor repairs that had been conducted on the cottage, and the cutting back of the brambles, honeysuckle vines and the decaying annuals in the garden. Shortly after, Crowley also began preparing food for Aziraphale. He would return from the library each evening as the sun slipped from the sky to find a warm, delicious meal waiting for him. Each time, although he would thank Crowley, Aziraphale would also flinch as his stomach performed somersaults for more than one reason.

“You don’t need to do these things for me, you know,” Aziraphale professed one day, addressing the elephant in the room. “It feels as though you believe you owe me something.”

“I feel as though I have been visited by an angel. I owe you _everything_.”

“Crowley...”

“But that is not why I do it. I just want to make you happy.”

“You don’t need to do anything to make me happy. I must tell you that I am happier than I can ever recall being, simply through your presence here: your company, your conversation. I am grateful, of course, I hope I have expressed that sufficiently, but you really don’t need to do anything. In fact, I would very much like to do something to make _you_ happy, my dear.”

“I am happy. I am nothing but happy.”

“There must be something I can do? Something you must have missed all these years?”

“Food. Wine. But we have already established it is best for me to avoid consuming anything.”

“Hmm, yes, quite. What else?”

“I missed _people_ , Aziraphale. Companionship. You have given me that. When we talk, my soul feels like it is shimmering with the light of a million stars.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat and turned his head away, running a hand through his hair. “Well, besides eating and drinking and talking, was there anything you used to enjoy doing with _people_?”

“Dancing. I used to love dancing.”

“Oh... oh, dear.” Aziraphale eyes darted between Crowley’s glistening orbs and the floor.

“It is all right, my angel. I didn’t mean to suggest it be something we try. I suspect, besides, that I would lack proficiency in my current state.”

“Yes, rather,” Aziraphale murmured quietly with a sigh. He should not have encouraged Crowley to think about the things he had missed, it perhaps being inevitable that those activities would still be beyond his reach. He hung his head, silently cursing himself for his insensitivity.

“Your being here is enough for me, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale had never had friends, had never been the sort of person to whom people were drawn, with whom they wanted to spend any of their precious time. Despite Crowley’s words, he was not about to start seeing himself any differently, reasoning, of course, that _anyone_ but the cruellest of human beings would serve as welcome company to a man who had been alone for over five hundred years.

“Be closer,” Crowley murmured softly.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“If you want to, if you are happy to be, you can be closer to me. I see how you restrict yourself through a sense of propriety. You draw back. I have missed closeness, Aziraphale. I have missed touch. I would welcome it, if ever you wish to give it. You need not be anything with me other than who you truly are.”

That night, when they retired to bed, Aziraphale stretched his arm out as a silent invitation. Crowley scooted over and rested his head on his shoulder, the first time, as far as Aziraphale was aware, that he had done this consciously. Aziraphale wrapped his arm around Crowley and pulled him closer, resting his head against Crowley’s hair and settling his hand on his waist. The bark scratched his chin, but he ignored the sensation.

Crowley draped an arm over Aziraphale’s abdomen, reaching out slowly and seeming to make an effort to steady his usual jerking movements. Wiry fingers traced patterns over his nightclothes and Aziraphale’s breathing quickened, despite his attempts to control it, aware that Crowley would feel the rise and fall of his chest beside his cheek.

“My angel,” Crowley whispered. Aziraphale closed his eyes to force back the tears gathering there. He once again entertained thoughts of madness as an explanation for what was happening. Certainly a form of madness had overcome him, for as his skin tingled in response to Crowley’s ministrations, his heart quickened not through revulsion or foreboding, and his back arched imperceptibly, leaning into the touch. “Thank you.”

Every muscle in Aziraphale’s body tensed and he rolled his head back as far as it would go, his eyes meeting the iron bed frame, to which he whispered, “You must stop thanking me.”

“I do not think I can,” Crowley murmured, pressing his body closer to Aziraphale and snuggling into his exposed neck, tilting his head to look up at him. “Nor do I want to. You are _holding me_ , Aziraphale. Perhaps this is something you have had the good fortune to become well accustomed to, but can you imagine what this means to _me_?” Aziraphale rolled his head back forward, resting his cheek gently against Crowley’s. His skin felt like a smooth, warm pillow.

“Alas, that fortune has never been mine, Crowley. Nevertheless, you must not thank me for what I give freely, actions from which I too derive pleasure.”

It was then the rise and fall of _Crowley’s_ chest that altered, the movements becoming more pronounced.

“Thank you.”

“Oh, Crowley. Stop it, please. I am nothing special, I know that. Do not allow me to fool myself that I am so.”

“You are wrong. You are so very wrong. You are the most special.”

“You do not really know me.”

“I knew you before you knew I was aware of you. The way a man behaves when there is no one around to see him speaks volumes.”

“What you witnessed then was nothing but madness.”

“Kindness.”

“Crowley...” Aziraphale chastised, but Crowley simply shifted himself even closer.

“This gives you pleasure?” he whispered, turning his head to press his thin lips against Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale shivered. “Despite my hideous appearance?”

“You are not hideous, Crowley. The work I do, it is because I desire to give you your freedom from me.”

“How can someone so clever be so foolish? I do not need freedom from you.”

“Everyone deserves their _freedom_ , Crowley, and I will be nothing but understanding, if ever I am able to give it you, when that freedom takes you away from me.”

Crowley did not respond verbally, but simply pressed his body tightly against Aziraphale’s, the movement of his fingers halting in favour of allowing his hand to grasp Aziraphale’s waist. Crowley lifted his head, shuffling slightly down the bed to rest it over Aziraphale’s heart.

Aziraphale sighed and removed his hand from Crowley’s waist, now running it up and down his back, catching on errant pieces of straw that still peeked out through the tears in his shirt. Why had he never offered Crowley a change of clothes? An irrational fear, perhaps, that without those clothes, Crowley could fall apart. Such thoughts drove Aziraphale to press his hand down harder, sweeping it over Crowley’s back with passionate strokes.

_Please don’t leave me. Please._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus spookiness begins its inevitable journey into the kingdom of fluff! Hope you enjoyed it, thank you so much for your comments and kudos! :-)


	4. Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale learns that Crowley isn't coping as well as he thought with the situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good timeofdayinyourtimezone everyone this is your captain speaking. This flight from Spooky to Fluffville will be required to make a short landing in Angsttown, but we're hoping to be back en route to our final destination shortly. Thank you for your patience, I do hope you have a pleasant flight.
> 
> (Don't worry, everything will be ok in the end!)

Aziraphale had often wondered how Crowley managed to stay so positive, only ever speaking words of kindness and gratitude, only ever acting to make their lives in the cottage more comfortable. Two months after Crowley’s awakening, Aziraphale received the answer: he did not.

Aziraphale had withdrawn to the library only an hour earlier, but had come across a passage in one of the books that might help him to give Crowley his humanity and freedom. In the curse, it had stated that the witch had bound the spell with her blood. Aziraphale had been studying the meaning of this, and had determined that the witch had done this to ensure that the curse could never be reversed, as once she died her blood would run dry. However, this text suggested that perhaps it need not be taken so literally, that any part of the witch’s body might suffice. Even had he a vial of her blood, Aziraphale was, as of yet, unsure what he would do with it, but this was undeniably progress. If they could just work out where the witch’s remains were buried...

Aziraphale could not find Crowley in the house, so tugged on his coat and hat and ventured into the garden, where indeed he did find Crowley, sat on the frost-hardened ground, hunched over with his head in his hands. Even from a distance, Aziraphale could clearly hear his sobs. He did not want to approach Crowley, deeming it best that he believe this moment had remained private, yet Aziraphale found himself quite unable to turn away. He lowered himself onto the step and watched Crowley until the sun had nearly passed its low autumn peak, his heart aching and insides knotting with anguish. That this might be part of Crowley’s routine whilst Aziraphale was sequestered in the library sent shudders ratcheting down his spine, and unable to bear the sight any longer, he retreated back to the library, returning to the passage he had been studying. He was forced to set it aside when the fall of his tears threatened to damage the pages.

At the usual hour, Aziraphale returned to the sitting room, finding Crowley using tongs to add another log to the fire. Aziraphale’s heart flipped over backwards, but he forced a smile onto his face as Crowley turned around and beamed at him as widely as the mouth torn into the fabric of his face would allow.

“Are you all right?”

It was Crowley who posed the question.

“Tickety boo,” Aziraphale replied, Crowley’s demeanour indicating he was being less than convincing. “A little deflated, perhaps. My studies have not been going well.”

“Oh.” The orbs of Crowley’s eyes rotated downwards. _Foolish man!_ Aziraphale berated himself. _You have seen him in the throes of despair and yet give him the impression of hopelessness, when in fact the opposite is true!_ “Well, no matter. Perhaps a break from it will refresh your mind,” Crowley offered, with poorly-veiled disappointment.

Aziraphale felt compelled to do something to brighten Crowley’s mood. There was indeed something he had been considering, and in the absence of any better ideas, this seemed to be the right time to propose it.

“I’m sure you’re right. In fact, I...” he began, swallowing against the lump in his throat and straightening his spine. “I’ve had an idea. I’m uncertain as to how it will work, but I do believe perhaps we should give it a try regardless.”

“Well, now I am most intrigued,” Crowley smiled genuinely, revealing the wooden stumps lining his mouth.

“You mentioned dancing, before, and in fact I do know a dance. Just the one. You won’t know it, I’m afraid, and in fact it has already fallen quite out of fashion, however, I have always taken a liking to it. It is called the gavotte. Would you like to try? I think I could... I mean, if you were amenable, I might be able to...”

“Yes.”

“I do not believe I have explained myself very well.” Aziraphale shook his head, his hands clasped together in front of his stomach, fidgeting.

“Yes,” Crowley repeated.

“Oh, very well, if you’re sure.” Aziraphale was pleased to perceive the positive shift in Crowley’s mood, but still squeezed his hands together more tightly as Crowley crossed the room, his jerking strides bringing him closer. Crowley presented his hands to him.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Oh, ah, well... start by facing me, with your hands out at your sides like this.”

Crowley did as instructed, and what followed was perhaps, no, _surely_ , the most ridiculous experience of Aziraphale’s life. He performed the moves slowly, with Crowley attempting to replicate them, on several occasions falling over his own feet or finding his knees giving way under the strain of the effort. Before long, Aziraphale was merrily dancing the gavotte alone, Crowley having abandoned his attempts to participate and watching him, the fabric of his cheeks bunching up to his ears as he grinned so widely that the stitching around his lips tore further open.

“I think perhaps I am glad to have slept through the rise and fall in the popularity of this particular dance,” he commented, his voice tinged with humour.

“Yes, well, I’m sorry; I thought it might be fun.”

“Oh, it was! _Tremendous_ fun, I can declare most sincerely!” Crowley continued to grin, touching his wiry fingers to the split seams of his face, apparently unperturbed by this development. “But not my dance, I am afraid. Take my hand. Let us try something simpler.”

Crowley reached his hand out towards Aziraphale, who tentatively reached out his own to meet it.

“Your other hand.”

“Oh, sorry.” Aziraphale grasped Crowley’s left hand with his own, their bodies pointing in opposite directions, but their heads turned to face each other. Crowley began carefully moving his feet, and Aziraphale attempted to copy. The absence of music and the slow speed of the movements lent a bizarre, incongruous quality to the whole endeavour, but Crowley smiled throughout, and although his expression barely resembled anything human, Aziraphale’s cheeks warmed and his chest bloomed to witness it. Crowley caught him off guard, releasing his hand and then twisting his body, reaching his right hand out and grabbing Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale stumbled, and they both laughed, although the inhuman sound that emerged from Crowley was somewhat disquieting.

“My apologies, I was not expecting that movement,” Aziraphale said softly, relinquishing Crowley’s hand and straightening his attire.

“Entirely my fault. What about this instead? The simplest of dances.” Crowley stepped close to Aziraphale and wrapped his arms around him, drawing their bodies together, resting his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder and swaying gently from side to side.

“I am not certain that this is a dance,” Aziraphale mused.

“It is if we want it to be.”

It was so simple, but that was it, wasn’t it, the key to freedom? To cast off conformity, to seek to act for pleasure from one’s own will, not dictated by the teachings and constraints of others.

“Then it is the very best dance,” Aziraphale whispered, dogwood curls scratching against his cheek as he leaned in closer to Crowley.

That night, when Aziraphale undressed, he was reminded of his thoughts from earlier, and showed Crowley his uncle’s wardrobe, letting him know he was free to change his clothing at any time should he so wish. Crowley thanked him but seemed disinterested and distracted. As he readied himself for bed, Aziraphale often caught Crowley watching him out of the corner of his eye, but he always turned away when Aziraphale looked around.

Crowley sat on the bed with his shoulders hunched forward, and when they climbed under the blankets, Crowley made no move towards Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s heart ached, and he shuffled over to Crowley, initiating their contact. Sometime later, Aziraphale fell asleep lying on his side, with Crowley’s back pressed up against his chest and stomach. He wrapped his arms around Crowley, pushing aside thoughts of where the witch might be buried, thoughts of Crowley’s anguish and desperation, just for now, just long enough to enjoy the experience of contact and trust, and the opportunity to give affection. He pressed a delicate kiss into the fabric at Crowley’s nape. Everything else could wait until morning.

Aziraphale woke early, before the sun had even begun to rise. He reached his arm out, instinctively seeking Crowley, but found only the cold blankets. The temperature had plummeted overnight, and the ominous, gathering clouds indicated an incoming storm. Aziraphale should head to the farm as soon as possible for supplies before the weather worsened, but first, he wanted to see Crowley. He needed to speak to him about what he had witnessed yesterday in the garden. Crowley was clearly trying to hide his struggle from him, and Aziraphale wanted him to feel able to share his burden, to know he never had to hide from him.

Aziraphale reached out to the bedside table to retrieve the matches, striking one on his first attempt and lighting the candle. He listened for a moment, but couldn’t hear Crowley moving. He checked the clock, which revealed it to be a little after a quarter past six. Aziraphale stretched and rose from the bed, taking the candle with him. When he opened the bedroom door, however, he could see there was already sufficient light coming from downstairs. All was silent, but for the gentle crackle of a low fire. Aziraphale blew out the candle, abandoned it on the chest of drawers and rushed down the stairs.

“Crowley?” he called quietly, his voice quickly becoming more insistent when he received no response. “Crowley? Crowley?”

Still no response was forthcoming. He darted from room to room throughout the cottage, calling Crowley’s name, then rushed out into the garden, not even stopping to put his coat on. Thick clouds were blocking out the stars and the moon, and Aziraphale found himself surrounded by darkness.

“Crowley?” he yelled, but still there was nothing. His heart thudded hard against his sternum, and with trembling hands he retreated into the cottage, yanking the door closed so firmly that it slammed shut. He headed back into the sitting room, eyes drawn to the weakening flames of the fire. The room was comfortably warm, and the air supply to the fire had been turned down low; there was no saying how long it might have been burning.

Aziraphale crouched down beside the fire, picking up a single piece of straw from beside it. His heart leapt up into his throat, forcing a cough to escape his lungs. He frantically searched the cottage once again, calling Crowley’s name. Finding nothing, he returned to the sitting room, anxiously lifting the blankets from the sofa, although he knew there was no way Crowley could be concealed beneath them. What he did find, however, was Crowley’s ripped linen shirt and overalls.

“No! Crowley, no! Please! No!” he sobbed, clutching the linen to his face, the fabric absorbing his tears. “There was hope, Crowley! Why didn’t I tell you?”

Aziraphale’s entire body was shaking so forcefully that he felt as though he couldn’t move, although it seemed he couldn’t do anything _but_ move. He couldn’t breathe, yet could _only_ breathe, and he was overcome by a madness, the most powerful of all madness, that of regret, and he couldn’t bear to stay in the cottage for a moment longer. He pulled his coat over his nightclothes, and with no thought of where he was heading or what he could possibly do, all logical thoughts drowned by his turmoil, he headed for the stable block, threw the saddle over Chalky’s back and encouraged her, with much resistance, out of the stables.

“You must! I cannot stay! You must come!” he begged her, and when the horse finally relented, Aziraphale mounted her and used his feet to encourage her to gallop. Rain began to fall, the drops rapidly taking on greater force and speed, soaking through his coat, reminding him that he was still wearing his nightclothes as the water soaked his hair and dribbled down his exposed neck and along his spine, sending a chill through his body.

“Oh, what am I doing? What good will this do?” he cried, not far from the farm now, wondering if perhaps he should go to the farmer for help, but how could he explain what had happened? Receiving no contrary instruction, the horse continued her gallop along the road, until a loud rumble of thunder startled her into rearing up with a squeal, before stomping her feet on the ground. “Hush, hush, sweet girl, it’s all right,” Aziraphale soothed, but then the lightning flashed, illuminating a scarecrow in the farmer’s field. Aziraphale retched, while Chalky’s body jerked harshly, throwing Aziraphale from the saddle before she vanished into the deep blackness that preceded the dawn. He landed on his back, his head striking the ground and the wet gravel of the road cutting into his flesh through his nightclothes. He did not register the sensation, however, immediately lapsing into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, a nice long concluding chapter will be on its way to you tomorrow that will hopefully make up for this, including some Crowley POV!


	5. Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looks like someone needs a doctor....?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff and "intimate moments" await you as we complete this spooky journey!

Crowley pulled the smart, black woollen coat he had borrowed tightly around him. At least now he was dressed properly, wearing a pair of Aziraphale’s uncle’s formal black trousers (although they did leave his ankles exposed to the elements) and a thick grey jumper. The wind was picking up and rain had started to fall heavily, but after all these years, harsh weather was nothing particularly concerning to him.

Crowley approached the small shelter at the farm gate and carefully extracted the coins from his pocket. He double-checked the tiny writing on the unfamiliar coins to ensure he was paying the correct amount and then slotted them into the rusty tin on the table before scooping up a loaf of bread, a dozen eggs and a pint of milk and loading them into the bag he carried. He had taken the money from Aziraphale without his knowledge, but Crowley was certain he would not mind. They would need supplies, and this weather looked as though it was only going to get worse. Despite struggling to join in with the dance Aziraphale had shown him, Crowley had generally found himself becoming more steady on his feet, and had been determined to attempt the walk to the farm. He was extremely pleased with his success.

Along the walk, ignoring the rivulets of rain running down his cheeks, Crowley had thought of nothing but Aziraphale. He could barely find the words to describe this man, this _angel_ , who had saved him from his fate worse than death. Crowley was well aware that Aziraphale believed Crowley’s affection stemmed only from a sense of gratitude, that he would have behaved the same way with anyone who had granted him such a wonderful gift. Crowley was desperate to ensure that Aziraphale came to realise otherwise.

Aziraphale was so pure of heart, so generous and kind, so intelligent and insightful, and Crowley doubted he was worthy of the attention of such a man, but was determined to do anything he could to at least make his life easier, to lessen his burdens. After so long spent alone out in the field, Crowley could accurately sense the beginnings of a storm, and had risen from the bed to light a fire to warm the cottage and to fetch supplies so that Aziraphale wouldn’t have to head out in these conditions. Had he waited for Aziraphale to wake, Crowley knew he would have insisted on making the journey, his concern for Crowley’s wellbeing unending. Crowley was determined to prove he could be useful, that he himself need not be another burden for Aziraphale to carry.

Yesterday had been difficult for him. There had been many difficult times since his awakening, and of course, before. But yesterday, Crowley had gone to bed aching deep in his chest where his shrivelled, cursed heart resided, desperate to be closer to Aziraphale, to feel his warmth and radiance. He wanted to touch him, to love him, to show him affection... but how could Aziraphale want such a touch, he had asked himself, staring at his wiry hands? He would never want to kiss Crowley’s thin, stitch-lined lips, or to push his tongue past the wooden stumps that lined his mouth... the thought of it even made Crowley shudder. But he would do whatever he could. He would do anything for his angel. Sadly, the things he was doing sometimes seemed to make Aziraphale feel uncomfortable, but Crowley suspected he just wasn’t used to having someone care for him, and was determined to help Aziraphale to see he was worthy of such care and affection.

Lightning struck, illuminating the farm buildings, and Crowley instinctively ducked under the shelter to conceal himself. A rumble of thunder followed close behind. A horse squealed nearby, evidently disturbed by the storm. Crowley adjusted the bag over his shoulder and stepped back onto the road towards the cottage. He heard the pounding of hooves, and a blur of silvery white shot past him, the familiar form of a grey horse, and something stirred within Crowley, a deep sense of foreboding and unease. He quickened his pace, his body quaking with each rumble of thunder, until the lightning struck again, a bright flash of light that revealed the immobile figure lying ahead of him in the road.

Crowley ran towards it, falling over his feet and dropping to his knees in the mud. He cursed and pushed himself back up, forcing himself forward more steadily, unsure where the sensations he was experiencing originated from, his shrivelled heart proving itself very much still capable of beating wildly. Crowley held out the lantern in front of him to illuminate the figure.

“Aziraphale...”

Crowley dropped down beside him and pressed his fingers to Aziraphale’s neck, checking his pulse, and lowered his face close to his nose to feel his breathing. He first experienced relief, but this was soon pushed aside as he took in the situation. Aziraphale was shivering violently. He was wearing his nightclothes under his coat, but all of his attire appeared to be soaked through. He was unconscious. They were several miles from the cottage. Crowley couldn’t seek help from the farmer. If he revealed himself to another in his current state it would likely provoke only fear, and fire...

But would Crowley have the strength to carry Aziraphale back to the cottage? Crowley, who had fallen over his own feet merely attempting to dance? He had been strong once... if only that were still true now. But he had to try.

Crowley forced his hand behind Aziraphale’s head, lifting it up from the cold, harsh gravel. Wetness seeped onto his hand, and after a moment he realised the warmth of the wetness: this was _blood_ , not rain. He extracted his hand to confirm it, finding it stained red.

He had to be able to do this. He _had to_.

And so he did.

Crowley abandoned the bag of supplies from the farm, lifted Aziraphale into his arms and rose from the ground. He could not understand it, but _somehow_ he was strong enough. He walked purposefully towards the cottage, heart beating ever harder, strides becoming longer, faster, more confident. Not once did he feel unsteady. He never fell, nor even stumbled. His body warmed with the exertion, his breathing became more rapid and laboured, and his hair fell across his face, slick and sticking to his skin, but he did not notice. He focused entirely on getting Aziraphale safely back to the cottage.

When he finally did so, Crowley lowered Aziraphale briefly to the floor, gasping for breath and trying to recover his strength. His muscles ached, but still he did not notice.

He increased the airflow to the fire and added another log, fetched a towel, removed Aziraphale’s clothes and dried his hair and his body, wrapped him in blankets, lifted him onto the sofa. He checked his pulse again. Checked his breathing. Pressed the back of his hand to his face to ascertain his temperature. Searched the house for clean cloths to form dressings. Cleaned Aziraphale’s wounds, fetched plantain and comfrey from the garden which he chewed and pressed to the skin before covering the wounds. And only then, when he had done everything he could for his angel, Crowley sighed heavily and reached up to run his hand through his soaking wet, slick, soft hair. And _then_ he noticed.

* * *

Aziraphale awoke on the sofa in the cottage, the throbbing at the back of his head and the patches of stinging skin across his body the only indication that it hadn’t been a dream. How had he got back here? Of all the pain he could experience, a sharp stinging on his shoulder particularly drew his attention, and he reached his hand up to touch it, realising his nightshirt had been removed, his fingers instead finding a dressing attached to his skin.

He retracted his hand, stilling his body and listening intently for any sound of human life. He could hear shuffling, and then footsteps approaching. Thank heavens his accident had occurred near the farm! Aziraphale experienced a wave of gratitude for the farmer’s kindness, after all, they had barely fostered a relationship. For someone who often entertained thoughts of being lonely, Aziraphale had certainly always made an effort to keep people at a distance.

The footsteps became much louder, and an unfamiliar voice addressed him.

“Are you awake?” the voice asked, and Aziraphale grunted in response. “Oh, thank God! What the hell were you doing?”

Tears filled Aziraphale’s eyes so he closed them, urging them away, determined not to embarrass himself further in front of the farmer, having already been caught injured, soaked through to the point that he had needed to be undressed, lying in the road in the middle of a thunderstorm. But no amount of strength he could summon was sufficient, the tears leaking from between his tightly closed eyelids.

“What happened?” the voice continued gently.

“I lost my best friend,” Aziraphale cried, managing to roll onto his side away from the voice, facing the back of the sofa, determined to maintain what little shred of dignity he had left.

“I do not understand. Angel?”

Aziraphale gasped and clutched his hand to his heart, rolling back over and opening his eyes widely. Through the blurry veil of tears he could make out the man who had been addressing him.

“Crowley?” he croaked incredulously.

“I am here, my angel.”

Aziraphale tried to sit up, and Crowley approached him, sitting beside him and helping him shuffle up and lean back against the cushions. Warmth radiated from Crowley’s hands.

Aziraphale reached up and wiped his eyes, turning to face Crowley, his body freezing as his eyes widened to fully take in his appearance. He was wearing his white linen shirt and overalls (but Aziraphale had seem them discarded on the sofa... what had _happened_?), but no straw peeked out through the rips in the shirt. His skin was flushed, his hair fell now in soft, crimson curls around his face, his lips were thick and full and his eyes...

“Oh my God!” Aziraphale cried.

“Surprise,” Crowley smiled.

“What happened?” Aziraphale asked, reaching out to smooth his hand over Crowley’s cheek, warm and rough with stubble, before bringing it up to thread through his soft, slightly damp, hair.

“I am not entirely sure. It happened when I was carrying you back here. Can you believe it, Aziraphale?” Crowley laughed with pure delight. “Can you truly believe it?”

“I cannot. I...” Aziraphale began, joy flooding through his body so forcefully that it pushed more tears to his eyes. His body convulsed as he gave over to them, burying his head in his hands and sobbing.

“Do not cry, my angel. Please do not cry,” Crowley breathed, clambering up fully onto the sofa to press himself up against Aziraphale, drawing him closely against him.

“I hit my head,” Aziraphale sobbed. “This isn’t real.”

“This _is_ real. Look at me, this is real, I promise.” Crowley reached his hands up to grasp Aziraphale’s forearms, encouraging him to lower his hands away from his face. Aziraphale complied, licking the salty tears from his lips and gazing into Crowley’s eyes. “You are descended from the witch, are you not?”

“I don’t know. It is possible. I have heard rumours, and the cottage has always been in my family.”

“I came into contact with your blood. She sealed the spell with her blood, angel.”

“Oh, I should have thought of that!” Aziraphale cried, his hands shooting back up to his face.

“Shhh... it doesn’t matter now. _Please_. If I have learnt anything it is that time is so long, and yet it is so short, and I am here now, and I am alive and I am free! I want to experience everything! I want to eat good food and drink good wine! I want to ride a horse at great speed through the forest! Come springtime, I want to start a garden! I want to learn of the advancements in medicine! And I want to _dance_ , Aziraphale! But more than anything I just want to _live_ , to be amongst people, and to give my love with all my heart!”

Aziraphale lowered his hands and reached out towards Crowley, grasping at the flesh of his forearms. Oh, he was so _warm_. So _alive_. Aziraphale’s eyes traversed his chest, his neck, his beaming smile, his teeth, and those warm, deep brown glistening eyes. He was absolutely stunning.

“I’m sure you will have quite the adventure,” Aziraphale murmured softly. “I am so, _so_ happy for you, Crowley. I may not have known what I was doing but I am so delighted that I was able to help you, all the same. Please know that I will miss you terribly when you are gone.”

“Gone? Aziraphale, I am not going anywhere! I do not intend to leave this cottage until _you_ do, and even then I hope to be at your side. You gave me reason to live, my angel. You are _everything_ to me. I love you.”

Aziraphale’s lips parted and they stared deeply into each other’s eyes. _I love you too._

“Crowley, please, I am not...”

“What can I do to make you accept my devotion?” Crowley interjected, brushing Aziraphale’s damp curls back from his forehead. “To make you recognise that you are worthy of it and oh so much more, not for what you have done for me, but for who you are?”

“Crowley, everything is new to you right now, you will come to realise that I am nothing special.”

“You speak as though I have not lived! As if I have no experience to draw on to inform my desires! Aziraphale, if you do not return my feelings, if you do not want to be with me, please, it would be kinder to simply say so.”

Aziraphale felt as if a flaming sword had been plunged through his heart. He reached out towards Crowley, pulling him close and squeezing him tight.

“Of course I want to be with you! I want you more than I have ever wanted anyone or anything! I love you more than I ever thought possible! But you will tire of me, Crowley, I know it.” Crowley pulled back from him.

“Whoever has led you to feel this way, they have cursed you no less than the witch who cursed me! How can you think so little of yourself? How can you say you love me so much, and not trust that I could feel the same? That you want me more than anything, but cannot see that it is equally so for me?”

Aziraphale’s vision blurred behind the tears welling in his eyes. He desperately wanted to believe Crowley. Why couldn’t he just let himself have this? His family and their judgements, they were all long since gone. He was the only one left. What right did they have to still exert their influence from beyond the grave? He had locked himself away long enough. He wanted to be _free_. He wanted to know who he really was.

“Please do not cry, sweet angel,” Crowley breathed, leaning forward and pressing his lips to Aziraphale’s cheek. Aziraphale’s skin tingled, sending shudders of awakening throughout his body. He reached forward and skimmed his fingertips down Crowley’s chest, his fingers probing into the rips in his shirt, gliding gently over soft, warm skin. “I am sorry,” Crowley murmured. “I did change my attire; I appreciated your offer and I wanted to look smart for you, but the rain...”

“Please do not apologise,” Aziraphale whispered breathlessly. “You look incredible. You _feel_ incredible.” His fingers probed more deeply, risking tearing the linen even more, seeking contact with more of Crowley’s taut, warm flesh, proof that he was really human. His eyes followed the movement of his own fingers with wonder. It all still felt like a dream.

Crowley leaned forward once more, restoring their embrace and forcing Aziraphale’s fingers to abandon their exploration of the rips in Crowley’s shirt in favour of wrapping around him and tracing patterns over his back. Crowley nuzzled against Aziraphale’s neck, planting soft kisses over his skin, working his way upwards until, with just a slight tilt of his head, Aziraphale enabled Crowley to bring their lips together.

Crowley gasped and his nails dug into the bare skin of Aziraphale’s back. Electricity coursed through Aziraphale’s body and he moaned against Crowley’s mouth, heat building rapidly within him, but after a few moments Crowley pulled back, relaxing his grip, his head falling forward to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Crowley was panting for breath, his whole body trembling.

He took a moment to compose himself, then returned his attention to kissing Aziraphale’s neck, working his way lower, across his collarbone and down his chest. Aziraphale tensed, willing his mind to be silent, but it would not comply with his wishes. _I am nothing special. He will realise. He will be bored with me. He doesn’t even know me. We should not be doing this. This is improper._

“I cannot believe I have the privilege of touching you,” Crowley murmured against his skin, his hands travelling lower, skimming over Aziraphale’s hips as his lips continued their exploration of his chest. “What a gift. What an honour. I want to worship you, my angel. I want to explore every inch of your body. I want to know everything about you.” Aziraphale’s muscles pushed themselves to the limits of the tension they could hold, resisting the temptation to relax completely and give himself over to the sensations Crowley was eliciting within him. “You are always so proper. I wonder what it would take to strip you of that, to make you let go?”

“I do not believe it possible,” Aziraphale choked out, aware that the perceptible responses of his body might indicate otherwise, and in fact doubting the veracity of his words even as he uttered them. He was aching for Crowley, a sensation of wanting more extreme than he had ever known.

“Oh, it is. I have seen it, when you were dancing.” Aziraphale felt Crowley’s grin against his skin and his cheeks flushed. “Can I break the spell cast upon _you_?” Crowley continued, working his way back up to whisper in Aziraphale’s ear before his mouth was once again on his neck: lips, teeth, tongue, breath, mercilessly demanding attention from all of Aziraphale’s senses. How was Crowley so able to read his mind? And what was the point of decorum, of behaving as expected, if it was but a thin veil of silk that anyone could see through if they were simply allowed to approach closely enough? “You once told me you wanted to be free. Is there something I could do, I wonder, that should cause all of this conditioning to fall away? You worked so diligently to free me, and I intend to do the same for you. Would you allow that? Would you want me to try?”

Aziraphale _desperately_ wanted that, but he struggled to shake the feeling that Crowley still behaved as though indebted to him. _I am nothing, how long will it be before he sees that?_

“So many times I have wondered who I truly am, free from my family, free from society,” Aziraphale managed, limbs aching from the rigid posture he held, nerve endings aflame from Crowley’s relentless ministrations. “But whatever I am, whatever I _would be_ were I free of it all, I know most assuredly that I would be nothing special, nothing worthy of you.”

Crowley lifted his head to look him in the eye, and Aziraphale fought hard to force himself not to turn away from his penetrating stare.

“You are the man who was so troubled by even the appearance of an _approximation_ of a man in the cold that you wrapped your own scarf around the neck of an inanimate scarecrow. You are the very best of men. You are the _most_ special. Let me show you. I will give you anything you desire,” he murmured, lowering his lips back to Aziraphale’s neck.

“You are quite the master of temptation,” Aziraphale choked, still rigid, still upright, holding onto himself, standing at the end of a cliff, peering down and refusing to jump into the inviting waters beneath.

“I am merely an apprentice,” Crowley whispered, emphasising the sibilant. “Teach me. Show me.”

“I am quite sure I wouldn’t know how to tempt somebody.”

“Then bless me, angel. Praise me. Do anything you want with me.”

Aziraphale’s breathing quickened, Crowley’s words grabbing hold of that veil and ripping it from his clutches. His fingers rushed downwards and found the hem of Crowley’s shirt, grasping at it, lifting it, allowing his hands access to feel more of him. He spread his fingers wide and pressed his palms hard against Crowley’s abdomen, pushing them up across his stomach and his chest, forcing their way through the opening at the neck to tug at the hair at Crowley’s nape, before retreating, skimming back over the path they had just travelled, fingernails leaving evidence of the journey like carriage wheels along a muddy road.

Crowley moaned loudly and collapsed forward against Aziraphale, his entire body quivering.

“Never... nothing has _ever_ felt like this,” Crowley gasped. Aziraphale’s mind snatched frantically at the veil, fitting it back into position, and his hands retreated, fists clenched at his sides.

“I am concerned I will overwhelm you,” he whispered honestly, himself entire overcome, unable to cope with the intensity of Crowley’s responses to his touch.

“No... please... no...” Crowley gasped, steadying himself. “Do not be concerned. I have felt nothing but sorrow and regret, fear and cold for so long.” His eyes were glazed with tears, each waiting their turn to slip free and skate across his cheeks. “I want to feel _everything_. I want to lose myself. I want to start over and forget all that happened to me.”

“I do not think I am up to that,” Aziraphale confessed, his voice tinted with the sadness of beholding someone so wonderful and having to accept oneself undeserving of them, insufficient to meet their needs. He drew his bottom lip into his mouth and reached up to tenderly smooth Crowley’s hair back away from his face. Even this relatively insignificant touch caused a hitch in Crowley’s breathing. Aziraphale could see his body pulsating with each heartbeat.

_He has been alone for so long. That is all this is. It is not because of me._

“Can you not see the effect you have on me? Read me, angel, turn my pages and discover my secrets. I will show you everything, every single word of me. Restrictions are enforced on us enough by others. We should not also impose them on ourselves.”

Crowley captured Aziraphale’s lips again while his hands continued their journey across the entirety of the expanse of skin they could reach. Aziraphale sighed and tried to relax into the kiss and Crowley’s touch, knowing that he was right, desperately wanting to let go: to dive, to swim, to be _free_ , but the tension remained, and his thoughts would not be silenced. Crowley pulled back from their kiss, shuffling his whole body away and then rising up from the sofa, standing looking down on him. Aziraphale ached with the loss immediately, and his intestines knotted with regret. Why was he pushing Crowley away? What had happened was nothing short of a miracle! Why couldn’t he just enjoy it?

Aziraphale was about to reach out and beg for Crowley’s forgiveness when Crowley leaned forward, positioning one arm under Aziraphale’s knees and the other around his shoulder blades, lifting him with ease, repositioning him so that he was lying down flat on the sofa.

“Lie back for me,” Crowley instructed, and Aziraphale felt a powerful jolt surge through his body, coalescing in his groin. He threw his head back against the armrest and moaned, taking one step off that cliff.

“Yes...” Crowley growled. “You’re doing so well.” Crowley’s words were like taking a flame to paraffin, and Aziraphale squirmed against the sofa. His breaths were coming short and sharp and he clutched frantically at the fabric of the cushions. Crowley rested his palms against Aziraphale’s shoulders and held him down against the sofa, sitting with his thigh pressed up against the side of Aziraphale’s stomach, leaning forward and recommencing the exploration of his skin with his mouth, holding Aziraphale down firmly, pulling him down over the cliff edge such that they crashed into the water together.

“You enjoy my praise, angel?” Crowley grinned, looking up from his worship of Aziraphale’s stomach to meet his eyes. “Or did you merely appreciate my display of strength?” he teased. Aziraphale arched his back, pressing himself up against Crowley’s hands.

“Both,” he confessed breathlessly.

“That pleases me greatly,” Crowley murmured between planting soft kisses on Aziraphale’s flesh, now burning with heat, the blanket long forgotten, fallen to the floor when Crowley had lifted him, leaving him almost completely exposed. “My praise for you will never end: your beauty, your intelligence, your insight, your kindness. The way you shake logs before you put them on the fire,” he chuckled.

“Insects, Crowley...” Aziraphale gasped as Crowley ran his tongue over his ribs.

“I know, my angel. I know,” he murmured fondly. Aziraphale leaned his head back and closed his eyes, and Crowley relinquished his hold on his shoulders in favour of once again allowing his fingers to explore. Aziraphale tangled his own fingers in Crowley’s hair, tugging gently, spurred on when Crowley abandoned his kisses to groan and drop his forehead against Aziraphale’s chest.

“Come here. Lie with me, please,” Aziraphale begged.

Aziraphale shuffled his hips towards the back of the sofa, making room for Crowley to stretch out alongside him. Crowley complied, tugging the blanket from the floor and settling it over them. The heat that had been building inside Aziraphale settled into a warm hum that diffused throughout his body.

They lay facing each other, both reaching out to begin tenderly stroking the other, and Aziraphale shuffled closer, resting his head against Crowley’s chest. Much time passed in that way, a contradiction to the urgency Aziraphale had experienced not long before. It would build again, he knew, but the most rewarding route to the summit of this mountain involved detours that took him a few paces back down before the next stretch of the climb. Aziraphale’s fingers wandered upwards and over Crowley’s shoulders and neck, threading through his hair, this time tenderly and reverently.

“I didn’t put you back in the field. I disobeyed, and nothing bad happened,” Aziraphale considered aloud. “In fact, the very best thing happened. I fell in love.”

He smiled, and Crowley smiled in return, proudly, _adoringly_ , an expression so pure and true that it catalysed the reactions already occurring in Aziraphale’s mind, like acid dissolving a limestone wall he had spent his entire life constructing under the harsh oversight of others.

“You are absolutely right that I should decide for myself how to behave. I am good enough to make my own judgements. Removing the constraints placed on oneself... perhaps that _is_ freedom.”

“It is certainly the freedom that is within our grasp.”

Their eyes locked, and the fire within Aziraphale was stoked once more. Executing his own display of strength, he pushed Crowley onto his back and swung his leg over him, straddling him, kissing him with such passion that it pulled him into a current that he couldn’t, and did not wish to, fight. He pushed down the straps of Crowley’s overalls and tugged again at the hem of his shirt, trying to lift it. Failing in his endeavour, he pulled back, Crowley’s lips chasing after his.

“Take these off,” Aziraphale demanded, and Crowley moved with incredible speed to comply before pulling Aziraphale back down on top of him to resume their kiss, but Aziraphale quickly drew back, eager to explore Crowley’s body the way that Crowley had done for him. Crowley’s skin was flushed and pulsing, his chest heaving, his entire body writhing beneath Aziraphale, who ground his hips against him, eliciting an unrestrained moan from Crowley. Aziraphale let the heat build again before shuffling back up Crowley’s body, surveying the masterpiece of creation that lay beneath him, and placing sweet kisses along his jaw. Crowley’s breathing gradually evened out.

“You are so incredibly handsome. You must sit for a photograph so that I might preserve your image forever.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “An image made of light?” he inferred. “That sounds something more befitting you, my angel.”

“We should do it together.”

“I will do that most gladly, but you may look upon my image in reality as often as you wish.”

“I have every intention of doing so. I wish to study you, to memorise every aspect of your body.”

Aziraphale returned to his prior exploration, almost languid in his approach at first, although his attentions still left Crowley moaning and wriggling around on the sofa like a serpent.

“You are teasing me,” Crowley growled, as Aziraphale pressed his lips to the inside of his thighs.

“I am savouring you,” Aziraphale countered. Crowley groaned and threw back his head, earning the reaction he had evidently sought. Aziraphale gave himself over completely to worshipping every single inch of Crowley’s body with his hands and his mouth until Crowley’s writhing turned into convulsions and he cried out Aziraphale’s name. Aziraphale’s lips parted and he watched with awe, not quite believing he could be responsible for this, that he could give such pleasure to this perfect being that lay before him.

Aziraphale crawled back up the sofa and pulled Crowley into his arms. Crowley was trying to speak, a few words forcing their way out between his laboured breaths.

“I... angel... incredible...”

Aziraphale kissed him softly and then released him, Crowley whimpering slightly as he withdrew.

“Shhh... rest now,” Aziraphale murmured softly, stroking Crowley’s hair and pressing a final kiss to his temple before rising from the sofa and pulling the blanket right up to Crowley’s chin. He ignored the persistent demands emanating from his groin. Nothing could satisfy him more than to facilitate Crowley’s pleasure, and next on the agenda was _food_ , Aziraphale concerned that Crowley had not eaten anything. They were running low on supplies, but Aziraphale had some stew left over from last night, which although nothing particularly special, he hoped would please Crowley.

Aziraphale headed to the bedroom to dress, his arousal subsiding with each passing minute. When he returned to the sitting room, Crowley appeared to be dozing on the sofa. Aziraphale was careful to move around quietly so as not to disturb him, although the ongoing clattering of the window frame and the pounding of rain against the glass as the storm raged outside would assuredly mask any sound he might make. Aziraphale placed the saucepan of stew above the fire, which had burnt out at some point during those hours in which Aziraphale and Crowley had been aware of nothing but each other. He cleaned out the grate and built a new fire, tapping the logs against the hearth as always, this time with a smile on his face as he remembered Crowley’s admiration of this habit.

He had thought to prepare tea, for the simple pleasure of curling up beside a fire with a warm cup of tea during a storm, but Crowley had said he missed wine. Aziraphale extracted a bottle of red wine from his uncle’s store in the cellar, uncorking it and setting it on the table with two glasses. It was not yet even noon, but had they not decided to set their own rules?

After about half an hour, the fire was blazing, the room was more than comfortably warm, and the stew was bubbling in the pan. Aziraphale carried it back to the kitchen, splitting it into two portions, a simple act that caused his heart to swell and his cheeks to ache with the breadth of the smile the action evoked. He buttered a few slices of bread and settled everything on the table. Finally, he lit a candle and pictured himself sitting across from Crowley at the table actually enjoying a meal together, rather than having Crowley simply watch him eat, and already felt giddy with excitement.

Aziraphale stepped back over to the sofa, perching carefully on the edge and fondly stroking Crowley’s hair.

“Wake up, my love,” he murmured softly, and Crowley’s eyes fluttered open.

“Aziraphale... my angel,” Crowley breathed. He studied Aziraphale sleepily for a moment, then suddenly his eyes were wide open, pupils dilated and hands reaching out to draw Aziraphale into a kiss. Aziraphale yielded willingly, even when Crowley’s tongue demanded entrance, their kiss becoming something feverish and urgent. Aziraphale’s attention focused entirely on the frenzied wanderings of Crowley’s hands, tugging at his clothes, fighting with buttons and zips, grasping at fabric, gliding and scratching over skin, their mouths never parting, fierce, hungry, desperate, and so far removed from the languorous, undulating waves of pleasure they had drawn out of each other earlier. Crowley managed to work his hand past all of the layers of fabric that attempted to block his path, letting out a strangled sound of victory as he took Aziraphale in his hand with frantic, determined movements that created a void in Aziraphale’s mind where nothing else existed but Crowley.

“You’re _perfect_ , angel. You feel incredible. Surrender to me.” Crowley murmured against his mouth, Aziraphale taking the opportunity to moan his name before their lips slotted back together. Coils tightened deep within Aziraphale’s abdomen, the ecstasy he was experiencing amplified by Crowley’s words, and he squeezed his eyes closed and cried out once more as pleasure crested over him, pulses and waves of euphoria and _freedom_.

Aziraphale collapsed back onto the sofa and Crowley enveloped him in a tender embrace, whispering words of praise and love into his ear as Aziraphale’s senses readjusted and his mind sluggishly reawakened like a machine being switched on that had been shut down overnight. Once the power of speech had been reinitialised, he lifted his head to look at Crowley.

“Thank you,” he panted. “I have never experienced pleasure so intensely.”

“Neither have I. I want to give you all the pleasure of which I am capable.”

“As do I... in fact, I,” Aziraphale began with a self-conscious chuckle. “I had prepared you a meal.”

Crowley’s eyes widened and he grinned, leaping up gracefully from the sofa, reaching his hand out towards Aziraphale. Aziraphale had never even experienced such intense passion, let alone so fast, so when he grasped Crowley’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, his legs wobbled and his knees threatened to buckle beneath him, but Crowley reached out to steady him.

They headed upstairs, cleaning themselves up and changing their clothes. Crowley emerged from the bedroom wearing a black suit, which fit loosely on his slim frame, with a burgundy button-up shirt underneath, open at the top with no tie. He looked outrageously handsome.

When they took their seats at the table, the stew was no longer piping hot but it was still warm, a testament to how little time had actually passed since Aziraphale had woken Crowley. To be the object of such intense desire left Aziraphale feeling immensely honoured, hoping he could indeed prove himself to be worthy of Crowley’s love.

Crowley seized the fork from the table and immediately shovelled stew into his mouth, the moan of pleasure the experience elicited not too different from those that Aziraphale had drawn from him earlier. Aziraphale smiled as Crowley eagerly enjoyed another mouthful, hardly expecting table manners and propriety from someone who had gone without food for so long, and in fact extremely relieved that Crowley had not chosen to restrain himself thusly.

“I apologise for the simplicity of the meal,” Aziraphale offered after taking a more delicate mouthful of the stew. “We must get more supplies, perhaps when the storm has passed.”

“That is what I was doing this morning. I did not wish for you to have to venture out in the storm,” Crowley began, taking another mouthful and then talking around it. “I had to leave the bag with the food in order to carry you.”

Somehow none of this had yet crossed Aziraphale’s mind: that Crowley had been at the farm, that he had found him in the road, that he had carried him all the way back to the cottage. He had been too distracted by the miracle of Crowley’s transformation, and all that had followed. The thought of Crowley’s powerful arms carrying him provoked another surge of desire, but it was overridden by a wave of anguish as he thought back to the events that had taken place before dawn.

“I was terrified when I could not find you,” Aziraphale confessed, not elaborating on what he thought had happened. Crowley had promised he would not harm himself, and Aziraphale would ensure that he never doubted him again. Crowley reached out across the table and took Aziraphale’s hand in his.

“I am so sorry, angel. You do not normally wake so early and I had hoped to surprise you. I wanted to be useful to you. You are not the only one who fears not being worthy,” Crowley admitted softly, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand. “I do hope that is something we can put behind us now?”

Aziraphale nodded and squeezed his hand in return.

“Perhaps we can go for a walk together later, retrieve the food, and, I do hope, your horse.”

“Oh, Chalky!” Aziraphale cried, extracting his hand from Crowley’s and covering his face.

“Do not worry, my angel. I have known many a spooked horse and they have always returned home if they have been well cared for.”

“Oh, I do hope you’re right!”

“Have faith, I have no doubt that everything will be fine. Once you have finished your work here, you and I shall ride to the city on the back of that very horse, and I shall wrap my arms tightly around you, and then, when we arrive... will you show me your world?”

“Of course! I will most happily show you everything you want to see.”

Crowley smiled and reached out for the bottle on the table, pouring himself his first glass of wine in over five hundred years, setting the bottle down and waiting for Aziraphale to do the same before raising his glass towards him.

“To the world,” Crowley toasted with a smile. Overwhelmed with joy, gratitude and love, Aziraphale beamed at him.

“To the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and for your kudos and comments, I hope you enjoyed their happy ending! <3 Thank you again to KissMyAsthma for the idea, I loved writing this!
> 
> There's a few things about the backstory that I didn't manage to weave into the actual story, so if you want to stick with your own theories about the bigger picture (e.g. who poisoned the apples? why is Aziraphale's family all gone? why did Aziraphale react so dramatically when Crowley went missing?) please do! Otherwise, I'll add a comment answering some of these questions so you can find it below if you're interested!


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